


Hot Springs

by paperdaydreams



Series: Scars and All [3]
Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Body Dysphoria, Consensual Sex, Finger Sucking, Fluff, Hot Springs & Onsen, Kissing, M/M, Oral Sex, Prompt Fic, Scars, Self-Esteem Issues, Touching
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-15
Updated: 2020-08-15
Packaged: 2021-03-06 01:40:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,575
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25905223
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/paperdaydreams/pseuds/paperdaydreams
Summary: Taking a break from their travels, Arthur and John camp at Cotorra Springs for the night.
Relationships: John Marston/Arthur Morgan
Series: Scars and All [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1877536
Comments: 6
Kudos: 52
Collections: Morston Week 2020





	Hot Springs

**Author's Note:**

> **NSFW**  
> Written for Morston Week 2020 (Day 4: Scars & Day 6: Bathing Together).

Admiral is as surefooted as he is reliable, the half-Andalusian draft horse carrying Arthur and John away from Roanoke's Murfree-infested hills and into the Eastern Grizzlies, the mountain pass a scenic journey through wildflower-dappled landscapes and picturesque views of O'Creagh's Run to the south in the dipping valley’s heart.

A month since the train robbery and John’s near-death scare, the pair of outlaws gone clean bid a fond farewell to the Balfours, determined to remain ahead of the law. It had been their luck a thunderstorm merged with a windstorm, the threat of summer tornadoes looming constantly during their first two weeks at the pleasant homestead, preventing the law from investigating the missing train and its passengers.

By the time lawmen _did_ come sniffing around, the Murfrees had stolen the corpses for their own ill purposes, and the newspaper articles headlined the mystery for days, wondering if the Murfrees had staged a robbery, or whether outlaws were involved.

While a couple of fellers showed up at the door with questions for the Balfours, Arthur and John were given enough leeway to disappear on the property to avoid being found thanks to Cal's vigilant eye. Their identity was clearly unconcealed from the Chicago-born couple who, presented the choice of handing Arthur and John over and reaping the profitable bounty, had decided to judge them otherwise and offered only kindness.

Why, and to what purpose, Arthur would never know. All they asked in return was the improved use as rifle so they may provide themselves with food, and stories of their journeys across the west, Charlotte and Cal raptured by their _abridged_ version of visiting faraway towns and cities few might ever go to in their lifetime.

With time, John healed from the knife wound and regained some of his strength, and Arthur found genuine contentment in taking his new acquaintances out to hunt some game. Admiral joined them for these trips, happy to stretch his legs, plodding along obediently while Charlotte picked up valuable lessons on shooting steady and skinning a beast. Cal was endlessly supportive, proud of his wife, and both thankful for Arthur sparing them the time to offer his knowledge.

Evenings were quiet, both couples to their respective rooms, the dark chased away by the glow of a candle. The Balfours owned a number of books, a volume of reading material available to their disposal and provided to their guests' entertainment as they pleased. So, while the deep scar above John’s stomach knitted closed again, they would lie awake for hours, Arthur reading the works of Wilde, Wells, Austen, and London. One novel that particularly struck Arthur’s fancy was Sewell's ‘Black Beauty', John catching him nonchalantly dabbing his eyes.

Most often than not, Arthur would hear John snoring faintly, lulled to sleep and burrowed into his side. Sometimes, it would be he nodding over the pages, yawning terribly until the candle was blown out.

When John was able to get up from the bed and walk on his own, the tension hanging over the homestead lessened some, though ensuring the younger outlaw didn’t accidentally (or purposefully) hurt himself trying to accomplish too much became the newest concern. Arthur was confidant John wouldn’t want to relapse, considering how irritable he’d grown as the first week melted into the second, his impatience with being helped outside to handle the simple task of emptying his bladder the final thread severed. It had taken Charlotte cuffing sense into him, reminding him he wasn’t allowed to do anything under strict doctor’s orders, that hushed him. That, and the threat of sending Arthur into the room.

But soon, John’s ability to walk enabled him the choice of getting outside for long strolls around the property, he and another venturing to the river and back on a good day. Arthur brought him behind the waterfalls one blisteringly sticky afternoon closer to mid-September, where they soaked in the cold spray until evening had them trekking back for dinner.

As October inched closer and John was able to help around the homestead, the bandages permanently abandoned and the scar neatly healed, Arthur began discussing his intention to move on from the Balfours. It had hung over his head since day one, the outlaws' presences a danger. There was sadness in the decision as well, as they’d grown fond of the company and friendship neither party had anticipated, but enjoyed and treasured now they had it.

At one point, Arthur had briefly considered arranging for John to stay at the homestead while he put some distance between them; as the older outlaw held the larger bounty, served the bigger risk, and was far more recognizable than his younger companion. He changed his mind against it, of course, wondering if it were an ill-conceived plan with little sense backing it, or if fear was deciding his choices.

Abandoning John wasn’t a decision he was comfortable making, for any reason. He refused to mention it either, and never penciled it into his journal. Merely a brush of thought, discarded before it could fully form, and before the guilt could sting deeply.

John would only ask why Arthur _didn’t_ go, placing the older outlaw’s wellbeing above his own; the boy had too much heart in him, despite pretending he was bitter and callous, his empathetic half yielding with barely a plea cast his way more often than he would likely admit. Thus, Arthur’s reasoning for keeping his mouth firmly shut.

Now, an autumn breeze ruffles the long curls gone wayward around Arthur’s ears as he steers Admiral over the bridge above Donner Falls fed by the exquisite aquamarine Calumet Ravine, settled close behind John occupying the saddle to avoid him squeezing his often tender belly to his riding partner. The pair are headed without a clear direction in mind, following the roads they are least likely to be spotted on.

A change in clothes helped enormously, Charlotte pressing a few bills between the pages of a book Arthur hadn’t yet completed to prevent him refusing the money, as he knew now she likely suspected he might try. The money had gone to food and supplies, the last few dollars stretched over a pair of shirts – one lightweight cotton for hot weather, and flannel for once nights became significantly cooler. John’s grey coat was since history, forgotten in the train fight; Arthur had cleaned his as best as he could, the buckskin on its last legs.

Most of all, he lamented the loss of his pa’s black gambler hat.

John shifts uneasily in the saddle, trying to pull upright before sinking flat again; Arthur has seen him do the same before when standing or sitting gets to be too much. Nudging Admiral’s flanks, he steers the half-Andalusian off the side of the road.

“We’ll rest ‘ere for a bit,” Arthur announces, sliding down from the steed and offering a hand to John.

“We ain’t stoppin' on my account,” John protests, fixing the sandy-haired outlaw with a particular look.

“It ain’t just about you, cowboy,” Arthur fires back, smirking a little. “I’m startin' to chafe from not ridin' so long.”

John accepts Arthur’s help getting off Admiral, teeth in the corner of his cheek to abate the burning ache. Neither of them have been on horseback since Old Boy fled and the tobiano perished in the attack on the gang in June. Sure, they’ve been riding for the majority of their lives, but a knife to the gut changes matters, from going to lift something to rolling out of bed.

“Take it slow,” he’s told by the all-seeing older outlaw. John snorts.

“I been takin' it as slow as I _can_ , Morgan.” His boots touch ground and his muscles adjust to standing. “Just as _you_ are with that promise y'made.”

Arthur shrugs. “You ain’t ready. We been _over_ this, John. Let’s not get into it now, alright?”

John grinds his teeth but listens, though reluctantly. Arthur takes Admiral’s reins, leading the horse away from the road into a copse of trees, leaving John to hobble along after them at his own pace.

He feels thoroughly undignified, his bowed legs and flaming scar shortening his breaths to little gasps. But he keeps his head down and takes his time, the soreness lessening. One cannot force a body to heal before it is ready to, but he isn’t the most patient of men.

Not being able to do as he likes, to feel capable and strong, where he isn’t wading against a tide constantly shoving him further down… he misses it. It’s almost akin to Colter and the earliest days at Horseshoe Overlook. He healed just in time for another bout of recovery as follow up.

John’s pretty confident he’ll wind up losing an arm or leg next, if the pattern holds. Better to not be too optimistic, given his recent luck, he thinks sourly.

The reek of sulfur hits his nose then, as he reaches Arthur removing the saddle from a hitched Admiral. “That’s awful,” he comments.

“What is?”

“That _stink_. How in hell don’t you notice it?” John glares at Admiral, casually chewing at the patches of grass, tail flicking flies away. “What’s he been eatin'?”

Arthur laughs, putting the saddle down. “Ain’t him. There’s some of ‘em hot springs nearby.” He points past John, who turns in time to see a spout of steam burst high into the air.

Hot springs. He can’t recall ever seeing one up close. They’re near volcanoes, he thinks; he’s definitely never been near one of _those_.

“Don’t people, like, swim in ‘em?”

“Sure, if it don’t melt the flesh off your bones first. Let me set up the tent, then we’ll go see.”

“If our skin will come off?” John asks in alarm. The look he receives suggests he is, in fact, not only utterly wrong but amazingly stupid to think that’s what Arthur intended.

“Honestly, Marston.”

While Arthur pitches the tent, John rifles through the saddlebags, coming up with a tin of canned strawberries in syrup and two bruised peaches. There’s some jerky left, but not much else, and the smell of the dry spiced meat has him drooling; he stuffs it back into the sack, wanting to save it for their dinner tonight with the fruits, although his stomach gurgles in complaint.

He lost his appetite after all the thin meat broths poured down his throat when he reached the point he couldn’t bear to drink it for one more goddamned day. But when Arthur kept coming back with Cal or Charlotte, a chunk of raw meat ready for seasoning and roasting, his fussiness switched on a dime and he envied after a real meal for another week before everyone became fed up with his whining.

Now they’re back to nothing again, and the dimes and nickels they have buried away equate to micromanaging their shopping to strictly necessity. They could sell Admiral for a few bucks, but the horse isn’t truly theirs to give, and Arthur’s already fond of the draft mix.

They’ll have to start hunting game or find an area to lie low, set some snares, and prepare food to carry every few days.

“Okay, let’s get,” Arthur announces, seemingly content with his preparations, pegs secure in the soil and bedroll already laid out. He stashes the saddle in a bush, pats Admiral’s neck, and they set off in search of the hot springs.

Less than twenty paces up a steep slope, John holding a palm flat to his belly in the fear too rigorous of movements his intestines might come slithering out, the two outlaws find themselves standing on the rippled edge of a large green pool, the low sunlight glimmering on the water. It shines like jade. Scattered across the dry sunbaked valley are several other pools, some smaller in diameter, others dark blue in the middle where they are far deeper.

Steam rises lazily from a nearby rock jutting from the ground. Arthur points at it.

“Hot water comes jetting out o’ there, don’t get too close. It can happen real sudden.”

“Okay.” John doesn’t intend to, picturing the results without his brain’s permission. He notices Arthur bending to dip his hand into the water at their feet and physically tenses.

“Warm,” the older outlaw states. “Probably cause it’s real shallow.” He scratches his chin. “It’s safe, I reckon.”

“For what?” John is puzzled. Arthur’s eyes crinkle in amusement.

“Goin' in, cowboy. We ain’t gonna get scalded or nothin', long as we don’t stay in too long.”

This wasn’t the intended plan. John glances at the hot spring, deeper than his head in the center if his eyes are right, then at Arthur with wide eyes. “What?”

“C'mon, it’ll be fine,” he gestures to John’s stab wound. “Might d'you some good.”

The younger outlaw looks at the pool again, frowning. It isn’t too deep, is it? “Arthur, y'know I ain’t one for jokes.”

Arthur, unbuttoning his shirt, cocks an eyebrow. John huffs loudly in exasperation.

“I can’t swim? If you forgot that?” he reminds.

“You ain’t gonna drown in three feet of water, Johnny.”

“That’s more than three feet.”

“Y’can head back down there if you’re so inclined, get dinner put together,” Arthur adds, tugging the shirt off his arms and unbuckling his gun belt. “I would’a liked the company.”

John’s frown broadens, then slips off his face when the older outlaw sheds his boots and undoes his jeans, a challenging look aimed at him as the button opens.

Too proud to leave, John starts undressing. Arthur chuckles, jeans hanging low on his hips, and helps the dark-haired outlaw out of the pieces he can’t reach without soreness.

Within minutes, they’re in the middle of nowhere where any passing feller could see them naked as a couple of jaybirds. John isn’t too self-conscious around Arthur with nothing on, but with people he hasn’t spoken a word to? It’s safe to say strongly otherwise.

The older outlaw steps into the hot spring first, wading slowly, until he hits near the middle and is up to his shoulders. Five feet and then some, John’s mind calculates automatically.

“C'mon, John.” Arthur holds out a hand to him.

Toes in the water, he goes slow until he’s up to his waist, green water lapping at his skin. It’s mild, the deeper water around his feet and the rock beneath bearing most heat, a bath with cool water mixed in. His head is at no risk of going under, and he’s firmly planted on the bottom surface.

“Ain’t so bad, now, hm?” the older outlaw asks with a small smile. John nods in agreement.

An explosive _whoosh_ startles him, the spout jetting water into the sky. Arthur slips his hand into John’s under the water, blue eyes reflecting the oranges and pinks of the setting sun, the horizon a swath of indigo and violet clouds.

Shyly, John steals a small kiss, and is quietly elated when it’s returned. Their bodies are warm, the soreness around his middle loosened, the tight band of pain from riding faded to a boneless sensation. The sun vanishes in a wink of red light, and the first white stars unveil themselves.

It’s calm, only the two of them in the world.

John wouldn’t mind this lasting forever, really.

His eyes are scanning the distance when Arthur’s pressing near, light kisses across the back of his neck and shoulders. It catches him off guard, not suspecting it, but a happy surprise. Gentle fingers trace his sides, the length of his spine, grip either side of his waist. A disquiet tension unfurls to life, anticipatory and fragile in its patience.

“Easy, I ain’t gonna bite you or nothin',” the older outlaw rumbles in his ear.

“Wouldn’t mind if y'did,” he responds without thought.

Teeth nibbling, then pressing more firmly along the junction of neck and shoulder, makes him groan involuntarily. John’s got a fire low in his groin, and it isn’t the scar paining him, or the water's temperature. He isn’t sure of what Arthur’s planning on doing, or how far he’s going. There’s a chuckle as a response.

Hands squeeze his shoulders, fingers digging into the muscles and kneading firmly. John promptly melts, leaning back into the touch with a sigh.

Shadows pull the light from the sky, the new moon blacked out, the starlight faint chips of ice hurtling through a space moving too slow for the naked eye to see.

It’s rare moments of peace like this which remind him how brief life as an outlaw can be, only serving to reinforce living life to the fullest and making precious seconds count. John sighs again, melancholic and content wrapped into the press of familiar hands on his skin.

He’s turned around and kissed, much firmer and wetter than before, his mouth opening to allow Arthur entry. His head is buzzing with tension, his groin tight. The back of his head is cupped firmly, keeping him steady and still. He feels blindly, roaming over the hard line of hip, thumbs teasing the deep v-shaped grooves; there’s a low sound in response that he likes.

Arthur draws back, pupils dark. John’s thighs are throbbing. “If… if you’re hurtin', you tell me. You hear?”

John presses his lips tight, nodding. He swallows, licks his lips. His mind is rushing faster than a galloping horse. He’s processing Arthur’s words and failing to fully absorb them at the same time. He wants him so badly, yet context and details are out the window.

“Here?”

Arthur consults the rocky edge of the pool, eyes scanning quickly at their surroundings. It’s dark, they’re hidden from curious eyes, only the stars to watch them.

“Yeah, here’s fine.”

John slides a hand around the older outlaw’s neck, seizing his mouth with his, herded backwards slowly until his backside brushes smooth stone. He’s lifted carefully, back resting in shallow water, Arthur between his thighs. He’s suddenly self-conscious.

Arthur notices.

“Y’alright?”

He’s checking, needing to hear it. John nods, holding his gaze steady. He trusts Arthur.

“Yes,” he answers clearly.

There’s no hesitation to follow.

A mouth on his neck, his chest, a hint of teeth. It makes him shiver. Wandering hands slide up his thighs, heavy and slow. Deliberate. John’s pulse is pounding, a plea fighting to slip from his throat. Lips on his stomach, nosing the warm corners of his thighs.

The stars blaze bright. His eyes close, then…

Hot tongue on him, the mouth it belongs to hotter yet, engulfing his length. He gasps a little, spine arching away from the ground, chasing the feeling. Fingers at his base, teasing presses against his perineum.

“Oh, god. _Arthur_.”

He’s taken deeper and John reacts, hips straining up, muscles tightening and thighs trembling. Hands on his hips, hold him flat, keeping him from moving.

Smooth, swift strokes of tongue and sealed lips, a steady rhythm building higher, higher yet. It won’t take long, he realizes quickly. He means to speak, words cutting off to an incomprehensible babbling groan.

His toes curl as his body braces, a roiling sensation of overwhelming heat abrupt and intense. Dynamite, lit to explode. He bites his lip hard, struggling to hold off, then he can’t.

“A- _Arthur_ ,” he chokes out a warning. “I…”

It’s like hitting a wall, falling off a bridge, a wild rush of uncontrolled energy a surging wave of unadulterated pleasure. He can’t help from giving voice to it, a low cry broken by a moan.

It’s only as the rippling aftershocks steady and his brain unscrambles, Arthur sits up with a faintly smug expression.

For a second, John tries to think of something to say. He comes up blank, disconnected from sharp focus, still reeling a bit. His eyes wander down the older outlaw’s chest, a little lower, where he notices Arthur’s own longing quite bluntly.

John isn’t much for ideas, but he does have one, and pulls off the best sly smirk he can muster. “Wouldn’t mind if I returned the favour?” he asks, throatier than intended.

It sufficed to say it works out and, in fact, better than fine.

X

Peach juice dribbles down his wrist as Arthur bites into the ripe golden fruit, tongue chasing the sweet droplets on his wrist. He catches a pair of hungry brown eyes watching from the corner of his eye and, for fun, purposefully sucks on another bite of fruit slowly.

He sees John hitch on a breath, a flush darkening his cheeks. It makes him smile, and think some of the dirtiest thoughts he’s ever conceptualized in his own head.

“Not satisfied?” he teases, loving way too much how it makes the dark-haired outlaw squirm. “I know that scar's botherin' you, or I’d be willin'.”

“It’s worth it,” Marston responds confidently, then less so, “For both o’ us, I hope.”

Finishing the fruit in a couple of neat, ravenous bites, Arthur leans over and kisses the corner of John’s mouth, tasting strawberries and syrup. “Worth the wait,” he whispers. The corner of that mouth curls sweetly, and Arthur enjoys another strawberry kiss.

Then, John takes his hand and wordlessly sucks his fingers into his mouth, cleaning off the sticky fruit juice. It takes more self-control than Arthur would _dare_ admit to not take the dark-haired outlaw there on the ground, the erotic tingles in his fingers sending messages elsewhere. The undisguised look John’s giving him doesn’t help in the slightest.

Dividing the little that’s left of their food, John packs up the mess while Arthur checks on Admiral, feeding him the last two oatcakes for his supper. Scratching the horse's neck, his mind wanders a little and he finds himself grinning like a giddy fool.

He’s happy, momentously so. He hopes John is, too, after the weeks they’ve endured. He wants John to be happy, to feel wanted. He wants to lose himself in this, enjoy the simplicity with a man he would give his all for and expect nothing in return.

The weeks at the Balfours introduced a life he never had and never thought to want as something he now can’t nudge from his thoughts. A homestead, a garden and animals, perhaps to profit off training and selling horses. Would John enjoy something like that?

Arthur knows it’s alright to keep dreams close to the heart, and intends to. A life on the run, shooting and thieving and beating people for money – that’s all he knows, it’s all he’s good for. He doesn’t care much for this life anymore, if it brings so much wrongness and bitterness, the evil of it crawling up his back. He would rest easier, putting it behind him, both he and John.

Giving Admiral a final pat, Arthur goes to the tent and crouches, finding the younger outlaw already stretched out on the bed roll, a book held open over his face in the lantern light.

Pulling off his boots and placing them inside the flap entry, Arthur discards his gun belt within easy reach and settles beside John, their bodies tight in the compact space. John’s eyes are firmly fixed on the page he’s immersed in, and Arthur glimpses the title on the cover: _The Picture of Dorian Gray._

“Don’t tell me what happens,” he warns. He’s only read the first few chapters.

“I won’t,” comes a distracted mumble, then he promptly sets the book down upon his chest. “Mhm, m'eyes are crossin’.”

“We got a long way to go tomorrow,” Arthur reminds, starting to reach above them to extinguish the lantern, then it crosses his mind to check Marston’s scar.

Tugging the hem of the shirt up, the puckered skin is as it was earlier in the morning, producing no signs of reopening or irritation. Though it limits travel, placing the workload's majority on Arthur’s shoulders, it’s a good sign.

Arthur leans down to kiss the scar affectionately. John is pink when he glances up.

“John?” Has he hurt him, or…?

“Why’d y'do that?” he asks in a small voice.

Arthur isn’t sure how to answer something that really doesn’t have an answer. Instead, he moves further up and repeats the same to the trio of scars on John’s face. “Cause it’s you,” he tries.

“I ain’t nothin' but… scars.” He swallows tightly. “I were never… like you. Won’t ever be.”

“Me?” Arthur is perplexed. What does he mean?

“Y'know… all them ladies fawnin’ over you. A few fellers, too,” John is almost thrumming with nervousness, or perhaps in frustration Arthur needs it spelled out for him. “Y'walk in a room an' everyone’s starin' at you.”

“Cause I’m an outlaw,” Arthur points out.

“Any o'the rest of us never got looked at like you. Then again, half of them weren’t as goddamned pretty.”

There’s that word again: Pretty. The bar brawl with Tommy, and now John. Arthur thought it was just to get a rise out of him, to stir the pot, but the context here is _vastly_ different.

John thinks he’s… _pretty?_

“Stop messin' around,” he disapproves, reaching for the lantern. John catches his arm before he does, worried.

“Arthur…” he begins, but the older outlaw can’t bear to hear this. He’s heard otherwise all his life. And for John to talk about it, to put an idea in Arthur’s head that isn’t true…

John seems to understand that, though. “I know you ain’t one for vanity, an’ I sure as hell ain’t some charmer, but…” he pauses, Arthur tense, until he adds very kindly and sweetly, “I want you as you are.”

Arthur seems lost in disbelief, gaze downcast.

“There ain’t much to be wantin',” he responds dully, tracing around the knife scar gently; the mark in his skin doesn’t erase any of how he sees John, but the act of how it happened, oh how he’d want to take it away.

A light palm on his cheek causes him to lift his eyes. John’s are tender, but a little sad.

“I’m inclined to disagree, sunshine,” John says. “And it’s okay if you don’t wanna believe me, but I’ll keep tellin' you how much the sight of you ain’t _nothin'_ to be hatin' on.”

“Well then,” Arthur isn’t inclined to argue the younger outlaw’s speech. “If you say so.”

John sighs, shifting on the bed roll to tuck nearer to Arthur. “Ain’t no winnin' with you, is there?” he grumbles. “What would it take, for y'to believe me?”

Arthur takes a moment to think about it. No, he doesn’t believe he’s what John apparently sees in him. He’s never been ‘good enough' for as long as he can recall, former relations cementing as such. But if he thinks of Marston – scars and all – the same as he thinks of _him_ …

Is that how it feels? To care for someone as they are, even if they hate themselves, and to not feel any different anyways? John’s question repeats in his head, and he chuckles.

“Y'never did buy me that whiskey.”

John laughs.

“I was kinda busy playin' hostage.”

“Is that your excuse?” Arthur extinguishes the lantern, laying on his side with an arm open for John to lie close beside him.

“Yeah,” John smiles. “The gunslinger who went an’ saved me would know it. I’ll have to show him my appreciation sometime… if he’s interested.”

Arthur nuzzles against Marston’s temple, kissing there lightly. “Mhm, he'd like that. Scars an' all.”

“Let him know I’m waitin',” John whispers drowsily, burrowing closer. 

“Sure thing, darlin'.”


End file.
